


Just Our Secret to Grow

by ANocturnalCow212



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Fluff, Secret Garden AU, Teensy bit of angst at the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-15
Updated: 2017-07-23
Packaged: 2018-12-02 11:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11508147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ANocturnalCow212/pseuds/ANocturnalCow212
Summary: Sansa becomes fast friends with her half-brother, Jon when she discovers a legendary lost garden at Winterfell.Inspired by The Secret Garden.





	1. Chapter 1

The story of Jonnel and Sansa Stark’s garden in Winterfell’s godswood wasn’t a thrilling one, nor was it particularly heroic. In all honesty, it wasn’t much of story at all. Yet, it was one of Sansa’s favorites. She usually asked Old Nan to tell it when the others had gone to sleep. They preferred stories with sword-fights and tourneys and dances of dragons. Sansa liked those too, but for some reason, nothing was sweeter to her than the story that may have taken place in her own home.

Jonnel “One-Eyed” Stark was a broken man when he married his niece, Sansa Stark. He had fought a great many battles keeping peace in the North. His first wife, Robyn, was a southron lady unaccustomed to the white winds of the north. She died giving birth to a stillborn babe. With no heir to succeed him, his brother and banner men arranged for him to marry his niece, Sansa.

Lady Sansa was just a girl. She had dreamed of marrying a young and handsome prince when she came of age. Little had she imagined she’d wed someone so much older than her, who only had one eye. Lord Jonnel was no fool. He saw the sadness in her eyes as she drifted through the halls of Winterfell. He thought a garden would make her life with him more bearable.

He was right. Lady Sansa tended to the garden herself, dirtying her hands whilst turning the soil, cutting away dead wood and weeds, kissing and singing to the fresh buds in encouragement to bloom. Lord Jonnel spied her in her contented state from the wall flanking the garden. Sensing his presence, Lady Sansa invited him inside and enlisted his help. They spent every afternoon together in the garden. A deep love blossomed between them, and for a time the North prospered under their joint rule.

But their happiness was not to last. Lady Sansa grew ill while carrying their first babe. Like Lady Robyn, she perished after birthing a stillborn. Consumed by grief, Lord Jonnel withdrew from his duties as Warden of the North. He locked the entrance to Lady Sansa’s garden and buried the key—locking away their love to grow wild until the Long Night covered everything in ice and snow.

The garden was real. Sansa was sure of it. She pestered her father to know where it was while he offered his prayers at the godswood one morning. Lord Eddard Stark, always charmed by his eldest daughter’s fascination with old wives’ tales, chuckled and took her by the hand to the depths of the godswood. At its thickest, they came upon a lush curtain of ivy, flashing tiny glimpses of the moss colored wall of stone hiding behind it. Sansa’s eyes followed the ivy up, higher and higher, until it had nothing to cling to. Above it, willowy branches drooped from trees behind the wall. Birds nesting in them chirped merrily.

Sansa reached out to move the trains of ivy aside. Her father snatched her hand away.

“You’ll catch the ivy’s itch if you’re not careful. Besides, the door’s been locked for years. It’s not likely to give way even if I were to get the entire Guard to break it open.”

Her father couldn’t dissuade her. She spent hours of her precious free time searching the wall for a door in, and the godswood floor for a sign to where Lord Jonnel had buried the key. Every excursion ended in vain, but nothing stopped her from hoping. She so desperately wanted to see what the love of legend—the kind that endured, even after death—looked like. A garden borne of love. _How am I to know what it feels like to be in love if I never see the fruit of love with my own eyes?_

***

The boys wished to go hunting to celebrate Jon’s eleventh name-day. Having caught wind of the idea, Arya and Bran clamored to join them. Lady Catelyn didn’t approve of the plan. She didn’t see how Jon’s name-day warranted celebration of any sort. But Robb was persistent in his pursuit to get what he wanted, and he wore her down. She agreed on one condition—that they take Jory with them.

Sansa, who had seen nine name-days by then, did not care for hunts. She didn’t care much for her half-brother either. She did, however, care that her brothers and Arya and Theon didn’t think to invite her. Indignant, she invited herself to the excursion and regretted her decision as soon as they left the castle grounds.

The others raced ahead and disappeared into the dark depths of the Wolfswood. Sansa knew how to ride—she was a highborn lady in the making, after all—but she wasn’t comfortable going faster than a dignified canter. She did try to keep up, but the unpredictable terrain unsettled her pony as much as it did her. Soon enough, her siblings’ giddy hoots were distant echoes through the woods. Seeing no reason to try further, she came to a halt and dismounted.

Jory came back moments later, a look of concern shrouding his handsome features. “You all right, Sansa?”

“I—“ Sansa squeaked. She wanted to cry on hearing how pathetic she sounded.

“There, there, now. Let’s get you home. I’ll call for the others.”

“No!” Sansa cried in horror. “If we go back because of me, they’ll all hate me. You go on. I’ll stay right here.”

She flattened the back of her skirts and sat down on an aerial root.

Theon’s raucous laughter jerked Jory’s head in their direction. “You’re sure?” he asked of the little girl.

“Yes, I’ll be right here. I promise.”

A lone lark dancing about the fallen leaves kept her company in her solitude.

“And where are your brothers and sister?” Sansa asked it. “Have they gone off without you as well?”

The lark sang a jolly tune for her. It danced about and fluttered its wings as though it was telling her some great secret. Sansa wished she understood what it told her. It sounded terribly exciting. She listened and nodded so the little bird didn’t think she didn’t care. When it hopped away from her, she followed it because she thought that’s what it was telling her to do.

Some way away, it came upon a mound of freshly turned earth. It looked richer, purer than what made up the rest of the wood. The lark fluttered off the ground and dove into the mound. Again. And Again.

“You’ll hurt yourself, little bird,” Sansa said, perplexed. She grabbed a twig with a sharp end. “Here, let me help you.”

She dug into the mound, swirled the twig about the soft earth until it hit something—something made of metal. Burying her hand into the earth, she pulled the object out. It was an old key. And she knew immediately—it wasn’t just any key. It was the key to her namesake’s garden.

The others came back with a squirrel, a jack rabbit, and plenty of japes at Sansa’s expense. Sansa didn’t heed them. She’d made a new friend in the lark who’d be accompanying her back home, and she had an ancient key tucked away in her skirts.

***

The door revealed itself to Sansa, as though by magic, when she walked the length of the wall with the key in hand. She cleared the keyhole of moss and dirt and stuck the key in. It was a little sticky, but a perfect fit nonetheless. She rattled the key till it turned all the way. Then, she shoved herself against the sticky door, bruising herself black and blue. Years of fallen leaves blocked it from the other side. It gave way just enough for her to slip through.

Sansa’s heart shot up to her throat. Whether it was because she was finally in or whether it was because of the wondrous sight before her—she could not say. The grass was as tall as she was. Peering over it, she spotted what seemed a field of endless roses. Red roses, white roses, yellow roses, blue roses—every colored rose imaginable was there for her to see. And there were more than just roses. Lavender bushes—her favorite—were scattered amidst the wild grass, as were hydrangea bushes.

 _This is what true love looks like_ , Sansa beamed in delight, _unruly if unattended but so beautiful_. It was more vibrant than she’d ever imagined, though she did notice plants that needed help breathing. Some of them, sadly, were dead. It was her responsibility to look after the garden now. Nobody told her so. She just knew she’d been shown the garden for a reason.

She spent the afternoon clearing the ground of fallen leaves with her bare hands. By evenfall, she was deathly tired; her fine morning dress was inexcusably dirty; and her stomach rumbled violently. On her way back to the castle, she decided to keep the garden a secret. Lady Sansa and Lord Jonnel would not want too many strangers roaming their garden, trampling on their love. She would do her best to tend to it herself.

***

Sansa needed tools. The glass houses were out of the question. Winterfell’s gamekeeper kept count of all his tools, and he asked too many questions. She had coins in her purse. She could have gone to Wintertown to buy some. She’d never been to Wintertown on her own, though and she couldn’t risk revealing her secret by asking someone else—her father or Robb, perhaps—to come with her. She spent the whole morning looking for an excuse not to go. But she found the courage. _If I don’t go, I don’t deserve to return to the garden._

She passed her half-brother, Jon, lounging on a bale of hay, lost in thought as he absent-mindedly chewed on some straw. Picking up her pace, she kept her head low in the hope he wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of the castle grounds.

“Sansa?” He strained his neck to look at her. “Where are you headed?”

“Nowhere.”

“Really?” he asked with a solemn, somewhat concerned look. He gave her a once over. “Why are you wearing that rag of an apron?”

It was meant to protect her dress from dirt. She couldn’t tell him that. “I—umm…”

“Sansa, were you leaving the castle?”

 _I should turn back. Oh, but I want to return the garden so much!_ She tilted her chin up in defiance. “Yes.”

Jon’s eyes grew wide. “All by yourself?”

“I’m nine years old, you know,” Sansa said haughtily. “I can leave the castle grounds on my own.”

“But…where will you go?”

“Wintertown,” Sansa said casually, as though it was the most obvious answer.

“What do you have to go to Wintertown for?”

Sansa sucked in a sharp breath. She didn’t have an answer to that. Not unless she wanted to spill the beans to Jon. On second thought, she decided she would feel safer if Jon accompanied her. But she wasn’t sure if she could trust him. She’d only ever told her deepest, darkest secrets to Jeyne Poole and even she blabbed sometimes.

“I don’t understand boys,” Sansa said. “Can you all keep secrets?”

This earned her a grin from Jon. His eyes were very dark and pretty when he smiled. “I don’t know about all boys, but I can keep a secret.”

“You promise not to tell anyone?”

“Sansa, I promise. Now what is it that’s got you sneaking off?”

Sansa waved him closer and whispered in his ear. “I’ve found Lord Jonnel and Lady Sansa’s garden.”

***

They returned with a gardening set consisting of a hoe, a trowel and a pair of shears. Charmed by Sansa’s enthusiasm at the market, Jon suggested she buy some flower seeds as well. He’d never seen her so delighted with him before. He was very proud of himself.

She led him to the garden and immediately put her tools to use. A healthy red glow lit up her face as she chopped away angry tangles of weeds and turned the soil to give sprouting shoots a fighting chance to grow. Jon watched her, transfixed. He’d always thought Sansa a proper and fragile girl. Now, as she scratched and dirtied herself on her hands and knees, he thought she may just be as wild as Arya, just in her own way. It was becoming of her. He felt odd staring.

There were plenty of bird nests up in the trees. Jon whistled their way to see if he could get a response. Sansa’s friend, the lark, bounced over to him and made his acquaintance.

“She likes you,” Sansa said, her hands still at work.

“It’s a she is it?”

“Yes, she showed me where the key was buried.”

Jon whistled to the lark and got a response. Together, the two whistled a duet of conflicting melodies. Sansa laughed and cheered when they finished. Whatever embarrassment Jon thought he should have felt was overwhelmed by joy.

Once the lark flitted off and disappeared behind a clump of bushes, Jon surveyed the plants, particularly the rose bushes.

“Sansa,” he called, drawing a small knife he had tucked away in his boot, “a lot of this wood is dead.” He said so as he scraped some dull grey wood off to uncover softer, greener wood underneath.

“I know.” Sansa’s hands worked with such efficiency, Jon forgot what he was doing to admire her. “I’ll set it right—do away with all that’s dead, and make way for the living so Lady Sansa and Lord Jonnel’s love can grow for another hundred years.”

 _But winter is coming_ , Jon almost said. He stopped himself just in time. It would have been stupid to sour this sweet moment with the girl he never spent much time with. And he was actually enjoying himself. It was a good thing the garden was a secret. He’d never hear the end of it if Robb and Theon found out he’d grown fond of gardening.

He dropped to his knees beside Sansa and tore at the weeds on the bed she worked on.  “I suppose you’ll make a proper garden of this place—all prim like the glass gardens or the water gardens in your picture books.”

“No, I like how it looks now. Untouched by man. I think…I think love might be like that…greater, more powerful than anything we can do to control it. We can help it grow, maybe sometimes prune it, weed it, but we can’t really stop it. Does that make sense?”

Jon shook his head, utterly confused. “Not a word.”

Searching for the words to explain what she meant but failing, Sansa burst into laughter. Relieved, Jon joined in as well. He had never thought he could feel so light-hearted and content around Sansa. He didn’t want the feeling to end.

“I can help you,” he said.

“You’d—“ Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, “Truly?”

“Yes, some boys can keep secrets and shear weeds.”

Dropping her shears, Sansa grasped his shoulder. Her blue eyes sparkled and her smile stretched from ear to ear. “Oh, Jon, if you help me, I’d have this place alive in no time! Would you? Would you really help me?”

“Aye, I think I can manage.” Her smile was infectious. Jon didn’t remember the last time he’d smiled so much.

“I’ll make it up to you, I promise. I’ll—I’ll—I really don’t know a thing about what boys like besides playing at swords and roughing each other up. What would you like in return, Jon?”

There was a smudge of dirt on her rosy cheek which Jon rubbed away. His thumb lingered there, feeling her soft skin. “Well, you can let me keep you company here. Just the two of us, how’s that?”

“You really don’t mind?”

“I don’t mind. I like seeing you like this—all lively and loving with the flowers.”

She ducked her head, wearing a satisfied grin. Thinking the conversation over, Jon resumed pulling at the weeds. _I’ll have to buy myself a pair of shears if I’m to be of any use here._

“And I—“ Sansa broke the silence. She seemed embarrassed by what she wanted to say. “And I like seeing you like this, Jon. I like seeing you smile. It makes you look very handsome.”

“Like Prince Aemon, the Dragon Knight?” Jon teased.

“Not _that_ handsome, obviously.”

She sat up on her heels and looked about the garden, probably assessing how much work they had to do. Jon hoped she wouldn’t abandon their plan. He wanted to come back to the secret garden as often as possible. What Sansa said next took him by surprise:

“I know how I can make it up to you. We’ll clear that bed over there,” she said, pointing at an area to the west. “You can plant the snowdrop seeds you chose at the market there. It’ll be all yours. Jon Snow’s snowdrops.” She laughed at her own sprig of wit.

In that moment, Jon knew Sansa was one of his dearest friends. It was true they only shared indifferent, courteous words with each other in passing till today. It was even likely Sansa would revert to her old ways when they left the garden. But she had shown him kindness and generosity, not out of duty but because she believed he deserved as much. For that, Jon would always be grateful and loyal.

***

The secret garden instilled more excitement in Sansa and Jon than feasts, balls, hunts, or—in Jon’s case—a peep through the brothel window at Wintertown ever could. Its being a secret had a lot to do with it. They were positively bursting to tell everyone about it all the time. Sometimes they dared speak of it in the most ambiguous language in plain sight. Hearing their exchanges, Robb and Theon teased Jon that he was starting to fancy himself a, ‘bleedin’ poet.’

In the months they worked on the garden, the trees and flowers grew more lush, more vibrant—alive! Sometimes it sounded like the summer breeze carried whispers between trees. _What do they talk about?_ Sansa wondered. _Do they remember Lady Sansa? Or Lord Jonnel?_

There were days when Jon and Sansa could not wait till the castle woke to see the garden. They snuck out to the garden, watched all the flowers blossom in one magical flourish of first light, and then snuck back to their chambers before they were discovered missing. Some days they lingered till sunset to watch the birds retreat to their nests, the flowers close their petals, and the leaves release their guard and droop in slumber. They were like two birds tending to their nest, eagerly anticipating their chicks’ every move.

Heavy downpours turned their daily routine on its head. Unable to leave the castle, Sansa tried to distract herself from her desire to see the garden, to freely spend time with Jon, with her embroidery. While she made ample progress with the handkerchiefs she took up, she couldn’t focus on them more than a few minutes at a time. Trying to speak to Jon in hints about the garden in front of her brothers and sister didn’t help quell her frustration. She needed speak of the roses— _will their petals wither in the rain?_ —and she wanted to speak of the lemons and the cherry blossoms and the larks and the squirrels and his snowdrops.

Much as she tried to corner Jon alone to unburden herself of the desire to speak of their secret, he was always too busy. Too busy sneaking cakes from the kitchen with Bran, or playing make-believe with the boys and Arya, or attending his lessons with Maester Luwin. When they had gone near a week without speaking, Sansa wondered if Jon was embarrassed by their friendship. She dismissed the thought. It was her idea to keep the garden a secret. Jon was just keeping his promise by not risking being overheard.

But still, she missed his company. Jon wasn’t rowdy in the garden like he was with the boys. He was sweet and gentle and attentive to the plants, as well as to her. Most of all, he seemed happiest in the garden. Sansa knew it was because the garden itself was beautiful, but a part of her wished his happiness had something to do with her. She couldn’t explain why she wanted it to be so.

As the days passed and the rain showed no sign of stopping, Sansa’s heart ached in dejection. She lay awake as lightning clashed against the castle’s heavy walls and thunder rattled the world around her. Tears streamed down her face. She wondered if Jon was thinking of their roses as she was in that moment.

Then, just like that, the rain stopped one afternoon. Hastily completing the petal she’d been working on, Sansa dropped her embroidery hoop and bounded through the castle corridors to the godswood.

“You’re not heading there like that are you?” Jon met her at the archway with their tools slung over his shoulder and a wide grin on his face. “You’ll muddy your silk dress.”

Sansa was elated to see him but also felt betrayed by his silence the past few days. “What’s it to you?”

“Well…” His brows furrowed and his teeth bit into his lower lip as he thought. “I quite like the dress. I wouldn’t want you getting into trouble for getting it dirty.”

Fisting her skirts, Sansa looked down at the blue silk with the embroidered border. It _was_ one of her favorites.

“I’ll go change quickly.”

Dropping the tools on the floor, Jon leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “I’ll wait right here.”

They walked to the garden together once Sansa returned in a plainer dress and her apron.

“What else do you like about me?” Sansa asked.

“Like about you? What kind of a question is that? I like all of you, just as you are.”

“Then why didn’t you speak to me this whole time? Didn’t you miss the garden?”

“I missed it fine enough. I just—I don’t know how to act around you in the castle, that’s all. We’re friends, I know that. I’ll always look out for you and be loyal to you, but I don’t want to Lady Catelyn to lose her temper at me.”

Sansa wanted to say he was mistaken, but he was right. Her mother had always told her to steer clear of Jon. She didn’t know what she’d do if she found out about their joint adventures in the garden. She suddenly couldn’t bear to be so close to him—not because she was ashamed of disobeying her mother, but because she wanted to go on disobeying her. Jon was her friend and it didn’t matter to her he was her _bastard_ half- _brother_.

Bursting through the door in the wall, she came to an abrupt halt and gasped. All worries forgotten, she twirled about the garden, admiring the garden she’d been kept away from. The leaves glistened from the showers, rain drops shimmered on grass and petals alike like diamonds, and everything looked well-fed and rested. New shoots had pushed their way out of the soil. New buds puckered out of branches. The older buds—the ones Sansa and Jon had seen grow from seeds in the flowerbeds they’d cleared— had unfurled their velveteen petals and were now in full bloom.

“Jon, look!” Sansa squealed, pointing at his snowdrops. Their white petals twirled with the weight of stray raindrops from branches above. “Look how beautiful they are.”

She sprinted to them, dropped to her knees, and planted a kiss on each and every one of them. On reaching a lone bud which had not bloomed as yet, she addressed it as though it were a person. “I think you need an extra special kiss.”

She knelt down and let her lips linger on the bud before smiling at it encouragingly. Looking up, she saw Jon watching her, intensely bemused.

“They’re your snowdrops, Jon.” Sansa rose to her feet, her hands at her hips. “You must kiss them too. They won’t know you love them unless you do.”

His cheeks colored. A nervous chuckle escaped him. “I don’t know much about kissing.”

“It’s easy.” Sansa made a show of smacking her lips. “See?”

Jon looked at Sansa as though she were a nymph appeared out of nothing. Yet, he didn’t regard her with incredulity. He seemed nervous. Edging toward her, he chewed on his lip.

 _It’s not that hard,_ Sansa thought, watching him struggle.

Suddenly he took hold of her hand, planted a forceful kiss on her palm, then promptly dropped it. “Like that?”

“N-no…” Sansa’s voice was small. She felt shy before him all of a sudden. “You’ll hurt them if you kiss them like that. They’re so soft and delicate. You have to be more gentle.”

Gulping, Jon reached for her hand once more. This time his kiss to her palm was feather light. It tickled her—not just her hand, but up her arm and all over.

They tended to the plants and greeted the many creatures that dwelled in the garden in silence after Jon kissed all his snowdrops. Jon spoke after a long spell.

“I like that you’re so good to everyone and everything. You’re really kind.”

“What?” Sansa balked.

“Earlier…when you asked what else I liked about you. I like that you’re kind, that you sing to flowers same as you do to Rickon. I like how you believe magic is for real.”

Her mouth tightened into a crestfallen pout. “You don’t?”

Laughing, Jon shook his head. “And I like that you’re going to be a proper lady. I mean…you’re a lady now too, of course. But you can be a lady with a taste for pretty dresses, but then not give a donkey’s arse about them if it comes in the way of your garden. I like that a lot.”

Sansa giggled. “You’re lying, I know it. You’ve always preferred Arya to me.”

“Only because she plays with me and the lads. We’re kindred spirits, her and me. But I’ve always liked highborn ladies—the way they walk about, and handle things without much fuss. They’re lighter on their feet than men. You can never tell what they’re up to, but you know whatever it is, it’s nice. They all smell nice too. I reckon I’ll marry one someday.”

Now, Sansa laughed wholeheartedly. “Jon, you can’t marry a lady. You’re a ba—“

Her laughter caught in her throat on seeing the hurt on Jon’s face. He blinked rapidly to keep his tears at bay and turned his back to her.

“Oh, Jon!” Sansa hurried to him and wound her arms around him. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to be nasty.”

“It’s all right.”

“I’m sure if you truly wished it, you could find a fine lady to marry. I can help you when I’m old enough.”

“You don’t need to concern yourself with such things, Sansa.” Jon flicked her arms off him and walked away.

“You’re angry with me, aren’t you? Really, really, really angry.”

“No,” he said stubbornly.

“Then say you’ll forgive me.”

Jon’s shoulders slumped. He sighed. “There’s nothing to forgive.” His scowl broke into a reassuring smile, though Sansa still saw sadness in his gray eyes.

“I’ll pray every day so you get your highborn lady, Jon. Just as I do for my prince. You _will_ become a lord when you grow up, and then you can choose any lady from any great house you like.”

This amused Jon. He wiped his eyes dry. “I reckon I’ll make do knowing someone’ll be keeping me in their prayers.”

“Really, Jon,” Sansa scolded, “sometimes you say it like nobody loves you at all. And that’s not true.”

“Yes, well, you did give me those snowdrops.”

“That’s right,” Sansa declared proudly. “And mustn’t ever forget that.”

***

**Three Years Later**

Lady led the way to the garden—Sansa’s last time before leaving for King’s Landing. Sansa was elated, of course. She was betrothed to the handsome Prince Joffrey and someday she would be queen, but all that meant leaving her beloved garden behind. _Actually, it’s Lady Sansa and Lord Jonnel’s garden,_ she corrected herself. She had only been its custodian for a time.

But what a time it had been. In the three years since she had discovered the garden, expectations from her as a highborn lady in the making had increased tenfold. Septa Mordane made her work harder at her history lessons, and grew increasingly critical of her manners, embroidery and dancing. Her mother wished her to attend audiences with the smallfolk, and pay close attention to how her parents resolved scuffles and demands.

She rarely had a moment to herself. When she did, she snuck away to the garden where, when she wasn’t pruning and watering, she lay under the lavender weeping tree and listened to the leaves rustle in the wind.

Jon joined her sometimes. He too had grown busy after the boys started training with Ser Rodrik. But where he seemed miserable everywhere else, in the garden, as he lay under the weeping tree beside her, he seemed at peace. Sansa liked looking at him when he drifted off into a light slumber. His appearance was usually defined by the moping slant of his mouth, but up close and unaware, he seemed to possess the distinguished airs of a lord. Sansa liked that Jon’s eyelashes were so dark and long. She liked that his eyes were almond shaped. She liked how deeply his nose could breathe—as though it were drinking all the life of the north and nourishing him into becoming a ture northernman. She also liked how full his lips were. Truth be told, she just liked everything about Jon Snow.

She would lose him, along with the garden now—the last few tethers she had to her childhood. She was a proper highborn lady now, just as she’d always wanted. It didn’t make any sense why it hurt so much to leave all this behind. _Perhaps_ _Joffrey will give me a garden someday, just as Lord Jonnel gave Lady Sansa._ The thought comforted her somewhat.

Lady’s excited scrambling drew her out of her introspection. She wiped away her tears and turned to face the only other person likely to come there. Jon was cloaked and ready to leave. He looked a handsome picture, her half-brother—lean and sturdy, his black curls tousled by the wind, the resolute look of a man grown hardening his face. Her chest lurched thinking of how she didn’t know when she’d see him next.

He looked about the garden, admiring all they had accomplished in the past three years. “I thought I’d find you here.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to speak to me,” Sansa sniffed.

“You think very poorly of me if you thought I’d leave without saying goodbye.”

“Jon, you can’t join the Night’s Watch!”

“Sansa…not again.”

“What about your dream? What of all the prayers I wasted in asking the Seven for a lady wife for you?”

He put his hand to her cheek. “There’s more to life than taking a wife and having sons. The Night’s Watch is a noble calling. Besides, I might even become Lord Commander someday—that’s part of my wish come true, isn’t it?”

Sansa huffed. “I suppose you’ll have me praying Wildlings and Others don’t take you.”

“Pray I’ll survive the cold and I’ll be grateful,” Jon laughed.

He drew away and walked about the garden to bid everything one last farewell. “It’s a shame,” Jon said. “With winter coming, everything’s going to freeze. I suppose it’s a good thing we won’t be here to see it.”

“You’re wrong, Jon,” Sansa retorted with confidence. “This isn’t an ordinary garden. It’s a garden made from love—the true sort that echoes through time. It’ll survive. I’m sure of it.”

Something made Jon grow rigid. He seemed to be at odds with something running through his mind. “Sansa…if I were to tell you something here…it’d stay a secret wouldn’t it?”

His words made Sansa snort. “Jon, this is _our_ secret garden.”

He drew close to her, his eyes cast down. “Then I…I just wanted to say…”

Something flashed across his face, and he craned his neck out to plant a kiss on her lips. Hard.

Sansa froze. She forgot how to breath.

Seeing the shock so plain on her face, Jon crumbled with guilt. “Sansa, I’m so sorry...I…”

Tracing her lips as her mind reeled to make sense of what just occurred, Sansa spoke softly, in utter disbelief. “Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know.  I just thought—if I didn’t, you’d never know how much I love you.”

Sansa was unsure of herself. Still, she felt something pulling her to him again. “You promise never to tell anyone?”

“Sansa,” Jon’s voice quivered, “you’re my dearest friend. I won’t tell a soul.”

“Then—then I have something to tell you too.”

She leaned forward and touched her lips to his as though she were kissing the most delicate of flowers, freshly bloomed in their garden. There she lingered, too afraid to enjoy the moment’s sweetness, for she knew now that a great bitterness awaited her beyond the garden’s walls.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written due to popular demand. Enjoy!

Death robbed Jon of who he was. He wasn’t a brother of the Night’s Watch, he wasn’t a Wildling and he wasn’t a Stark.  Truth be told, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know who he was anymore. He had seen nothing but death and suffering since coming north. The realm was bound to hurtle towards a violent end whether he did something about it or not. So why bother?

Seeing Sansa again changed everything. Muddied, gaunt and weak from fleeing the Boltons, she was like the relentless north wind come to whisk him back home. One glimpse of her hair kissed by fire restored to him strange dreams of a girl perched over a flowerbed, pulling at stubborn weeds. _We can help it grow, maybe sometimes prune it, weed it, but we can’t really stop it._ She spoke of love. She fought for life. She didn’t have to but she chose to anyway. Her words didn’t make sense to the boy he was when she had uttered them, but they did to the man he had become.

He took her in his arms and held her to him, grateful and astonished he had united with his dearest, kindest, most beautiful friend. Or so he thought.

The lady who came to Castle Black was far from the girl who raptly listened to his discordant duets with larks and laughed at the faces he made when he shoveled apples into his mouth. She was pleasant company, but Jon sensed a wall between them even though Lady Catelyn had long perished and they were on their own. As though to confirm his misgivings, she sought his forgiveness for her cold treatment of him as a girl.

A deep frown dug between Jon’s brows. “Sansa…there’s nothing to forgive.”

“Forgive me,” Sansa insisted.

“You were always kind to me, Sansa…and generous. I haven’t forgotten.”

It was Sansa’s turn to knit her brows.

“Don’t you remember?” Jon continued. “All those times you let me watch you tend to the flowers?”

“Arranging them, you mean?” Sansa tried to make sense of him. “In the Great Hall before banquets and such?”

Jon shook his head. “I mean tending to them. Remember? With the gardening tools we bought from Wintertown.”

Sansa burst into incredulous laughter. “Really, Jon…our gamekeeper, Ben, would’ve rather been beheaded than allow me to till soil in the glass gardens. Are you sure the Red Priestess brought all of you back?”

Jon fell silent. _Perhaps death’s given me another’s memory._

“Do you remember the stories Old Nan used to tell us?” Sansa asked after a long spell. Her wistful eyes were trained on the fire before them.

“Aye, I do. You used to ask her to tell you about Lord Jonnel’s garden for Lady Sansa. Arya’d always rail you for it.”

“I don’t blame her. It was a terribly boring tale. I just…Something about it seemed so beautiful. I see it in my dreams sometimes, you know—their garden.”

Jon’s ears pricked. He leaned towards her. “What’s it like?”

“Paradise. It’s warm and blanketed in magic. There are so many colors and the smell of it is so sweet. There are times I dream of lying under a tree with weeping leaves and lavender flowers, and I can hear birds singing to their mates without a care in the world. But then the songs end, the weeping lavenders vanish and I wake thinking how I’m so stupid for believing in such things.” A bitter chuckle escaped her. “They have songs about father now…and the Red Wedding. Did you know that?”  

In all his years in the Night’s Watch, Jon had believed the beauty of the garden and the girl who tended to them to be true, but now he wasn’t so sure. _Did my mind conjure it all up to make my early days at Castle Black easier? Did I concoct the memory of kissing the most radiant maiden in Westoros_ _to veil the heartbreak of relinquishing the right to take a wife and have children?_

The answer was a resounding, ‘no.’ Even if their friendship and the affectionate gesture they’d shared were all but cruel dreams, he was sure the garden itself existed. He was sure because he remembered burying the key in the Wolfswood and marking the nearest tree on his way north, and he remembered doing so at Sansa’s request.

Their journey home did not take them through the Wolfswood. Winterfell had to be retaken from the south with help from the Knights of the Vale. The two remaining Starks put their best foot forward in supporting the north to recover and rebuild. Jon had everything he had dreamed of as a boy. He was named King of the North, his people respected him, and Sansa gave him the greatest gift of all—recognition as a Stark. In spite of it all, Jon felt incomplete.

Sansa was at his side, ready to counsel him at every turn. They got into heated arguments about the best way to govern, but they never stayed angry for long. Sansa was a peacemaker through and through—she was a tender lady, gracious if a little stern in her conduct, compassionate and boundlessly generous. Jon had no doubt in her ability or conviction.

But he knew she was unhappy. He hadn’t seen her laugh freely once since they’d reunited. She didn’t find pleasures in the simple things in life anymore like how birds had begun migrating south, or how the winter jasmines bloomed in the glass gardens. Her thoughts were consumed by the strains of the present, and she had all but given up on any hopes for her own self. Jon thought it strange that it was he and not her who believed in magic now. It made him feel terribly lonely.

When the castle had settled somewhat, Jon rode out to the Wolfswood to search for the key.  He rode round and round in circles seeking out the bark he’d marked. A dense mist descended on him, leading him astray, wearing his confidence thin. He wouldn’t admit defeat. Not when it came to Sansa. He took himself back all those years and retraced his steps. When he reached the spot he thought he’d chosen as a boy, he dismounted and cleared it of snow. But it was all for naught. The cold had frozen the earth, rendered it impenetrable even by his warrior’s strength. He hammered away at the spot with Longclaw again and again, his growls of frustration echoing through the woods till they became sobs.

Sansa rushed to his side when he returned home red-eyed and defeated. “Jon, what’s the matter?”

He leaned into her touch as she tried to force his gaze up to hers. Its tenderness made him tremble. In that moment, he wanted nothing more than to close the distance between them and tell her how much he loved her. He stopped himself, of course, knowing full well such brashness would repulse her and form a wedge between them. _We’re not bloody Lannisters!_ No, his desires had to stay locked up in the garden along with the secret of their parting kiss as children. He resolved from then on to do his best to make Sansa happy by being a dutiful brother.

When he left for Dragonstone to parley with the Targaryen Queen, he promised himself he’d return home at all costs. The more he told himself so in the months he spent away from home, the more he found himself believing he would. _I’m going to see spring’s first blades push from the earth with her. I’m going to find the key, and I’m going to restore her happiness to her._  

With a belief of such force so deeply ingrained in him, the imminent Long Night didn’t seem so long anymore.

***

When the Night King fell, a heavy magical mist seemed to lift from the air beyond the Wall. Day broke through thick clouds, swathing the vast white plains in reds and oranges and purples. As survivors banded together and headed south, remnants of the wall started to sweat and northern winds grew feeble. Ice sheets thinned and if one listened closely, they could hear running water underneath. Past Castle Black—or what was left of it—white snow turned to black and brown slush. Bare patches of earth appeared here and there. Showers after nightfall cleared yard upon yard of snowy terrain, and soil loosened under the warmth of the sun.

Jon looked up one morning to see a flock of birds returning from the south. Spring was on its way. He smiled as he imagined Sansa’s delight when she’d wake one morning to bright green leaves freshly sprouted from their branches. If he hurried, he could make it in time to see her delight for himself.

 _If she’ll allow you near her,_ he reminded himself.

He was not the Stark she had believed him to be, after all. He was a Targaryen descended from the man who murdered their uncle and grandfather. Though he wished the Great War marked the end of his strife, he knew a longer, more complicated struggle lay ahead of him—one that threatened to tear him away from the only family he’d ever recognized as his own. From Sansa. But the memory of Sansa’s giddy smile as she inspected her flowers in the garden was enough to make him forget. At least for the time being.  

He dismounted in the Wolfswood to relieve himself behind a bush. He was not granted the privacy he sought. A bird had hopped to his side and begun fluttering its wings at his feet in a frenetic dance. He recognized the distinctive fan of brown and white feathers atop its head and the noble point of its beak.

“You must be a great-grandson of my old friend, the Lady Lark,” Jon chuckled.

The lark twittered in the affirmative and hopped away. Hastily redoing the ties on his breaches, Jon followed the bird to a mound of freshly turned earth. Beside it, at the base of a great tree were scratched the letters _J_ and _S_. Satisfied by the grin on Jon’s face, the lark flitted onto his shoulder and watched as Jon dug his hands into the earth and pulled from it the key to the secret garden.

***

Jon never dreamed he would sit in the Great Hall with Arya, Bran, and Sansa again, merrily breaking bread together. His fears of being turned out for his true lineage were cast aside as soon as he set foot inside the castle grounds. To his family, he would always be a Stark. They had all decided to deal with implications of the truth later.

Jon’s heart swelled to finally see the happy spark in Sansa’s blue eyes returning. The days of war had left their mark on her beauty, but even so, she was the most radiant lady to roam all of Westoros. Jon tried to catch her alone so they could return to the secret garden but he was out of luck. Bound to her duties as Lady of Winterfell, she was always on the move, arranging for food and lodgings for the soldiers, supervising reconstruction, and meeting with the northern bannermen. She seemed busy even when she didn’t seem to be doing anything. Jon wondered if her behavior had anything to do with him. When he thought about it, she hadn’t once met his eyes since his return.  

Two whole days passed this way. Jon had had enough. He snuck up on her as she surveyed the castle grounds from the battlements.

“Oh, Jon!” she said, startled. “It’s just you.”

“Aye.” He desperately tried to hold her gaze but failed. “How are you, Sansa?”

Sansa laughed nervously as though it were the most ridiculous thing to ask. “I’m happy that we’re all together again, Jon. I’m happy that you’re home.”

She held her breath, her eyes glued to the horizon.

“Truly?”

“Of course.”

Jon sighed. “Then why do I feel like something troubles you?”

Seeing her about to launch into denial, Jon shook his head. “Never mind that. Come with me, I have something to show you.”

He offered no further explanation and led her deep into the godswood in silence. When a breeze blew the curtain of ivy aside and revealed the garden door to them, Sansa gasped.

“Jon, I don’t understand. How long have you known that—”

Her eyes widened as he pulled the key from his cloak and pushed it into the keyhole.

Dumbstruck by what lay beyond the door, Sansa stood frozen at the garden’s threshold. Recognition flashed across her eyes as a tidal wave of memories crashed over her.

“Jon…I—I’ve been here before. There were hydrangea bushes over there, and an apple tree over there, and there were lemons, and roses, and…” She stopped in her tracks to look at him curiously. “And you were here with me the whole time.”

Jon felt butterflies in his stomach. He beamed at her. Placing his hands at his hips, he inspected the garden. “It’s a right mess, this place is. But that was to be expected from a harsh winter.”

“Oh but, Jon, spring is almost here,” Sansa sang, skipping along the walkway buried in fallen leaves, undoing knots of weeds to check for living plants underneath. “Plants aren’t like us. They’ll always find a way to come back, even when we think they’re well past dead.”

Jon chuckled. “I reckon you’ll be able to liven the place up yet.”

“Only if you help me.”

Jon smiled at her. _Of course. Always._

Something flickered across Sansa’s features that made her turn away. She acted like it was nothing, busying herself in her inspection of the garden. Jon was lost in his admiration of her. The healthy pink glow he had loved as a boy had crept up to her cheeks again. He didn’t hear her when she called his name. Her spell on him only snapped when she dropped to her knees and burrowed through a dead thicket. Jon recognized the spot. It was where she had allowed him to plant his snowdrops.

“Jon! They’re still here! They’re but a few days away from blooming.”

She tore the dead branches and leaves from the bed, scratching and bloodying her porcelain hands. When enough of it was removed to grant the buds sunlight, she caressed them gently, rose to her feet and admired them from afar. Her eyes glistened with tears.

Jon didn’t care for the snowdrops. He only had eyes for the woman before him. “Won’t you kiss them to make them bloom? To tell them they’re loved?”

Sansa placed a hand on his chest and absentmindedly picked at a stray strand of fur on his cloak. She licked her bottom lip before softly saying, “Truth be told, I’d rather kiss the man they belong to.”

Jon could barely contain his happiness. He stroked her cheek in utter disbelief, imploring her to meet his gaze. “Will you let me make you happy, Sansa?”

Blinking back tears, Sansa’s voice trembled when she said, “Jon…you already have. In so many ways, I can’t even begin.”

The only way she knew how to begin was by giving him a kiss, tender and sweet. That, and the life awaiting them beyond the garden walls, were more than Jon could have ever hoped for.


End file.
